


Burn Like a Fire in Cairo

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Magic, Band Fic, Bathroom Sex, Celebrity Marauders, F/M, Fluff, Footballer James, Friends to Lovers, M/M, MWPP, Punk Band Sirius, Slow Burn, trans james, transphobic questions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 00:51:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7131455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Punk Band frontman Sirius Black is looking for a purpose in life.  Footballer James Potter is just looking for someone to take him for who he is.  When the pair meet, it shouldn't work.  And yet somehow, they find exactly what they're looking for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn Like a Fire in Cairo

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for fic request by theboysblack who wanted fan!James to end up with Lead Singer!Sirius. This is a little bit of a different take on the prompt. But hopefully it's still what you wanted!
> 
> A special thanks to Inseparablesirius for being the world's best beta and for letting me come to you with my ideas and everything. And thank you for keeping me on track for everything in this fic. You're the best!
> 
> Fic title taken from The Cure- Fire in Cairo

_Shifting crimson veil_  
Silken hips slide  
Under my hand  
Swollen lips whisper  
My name  
And I yearn  
You take me in your arms  
And start to burn  
-The Cure

*** 

Throwing himself into the chair, Sirius kicked one boot up on the stool which had a thin layer of cling wrap over the top. Mud from somewhere—he hadn’t been sure—flaked off and hit the ground with a slight thuffft. He fumbled into the pocket of his jeans for a lighter, flicking it and reaching the cigarette before it was smacked away.

Sirius looked over at his brother with a scowl. “What the bloody hell?”

“You can’t smoke in here. You’re contaminating my work area.”

Sirius grimaced round the cigarette still clenched a little too tight between his teeth. He could feel the filter getting too soggy, starting to give way. He swore he read somewhere once that the filter was made of fibre-glass and was poison. More than once he’d been tempted to swallow it, to see what it would do, but he doubted much would happen. He’d done enough damage to his body and walked away in one piece—or close enough to it—so why bother mucking up a perfectly good fag.

“Why are you here?”

Regulus’ voice grated on his nerves, though right now running on no sleep in over twenty-four hours, everything grated on his nerves. But Reg still carried with him that too-posh lilt. The r’s too soft, the tongue too gentle against the backs of his teeth, even with the three barbells through them.

Sirius didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on a patch of flaking tattooed skin on Regulus’ arm. It was some sort of galaxy-style ink, and it almost made him laugh. As much as they attempted to escape who they were in booze and a new city and careers that ensured their mother would never stop spinning in her grave, it was their curse. He had his own series of constellations along his chest. He’d been pissed when he ordered Regulus to apply the ink, convinced that he needed to bleed his family out his veins and begged Regulus to go heavy-handed with the needle.

It hadn’t worked.

Then again, he hadn’t expected it to.

The fans went wild though, the next night on stage when he ripped his flimsy shirt off half-way through their opening number. There were nine new Instagram accounts dedicated to his ink alone within twenty minutes.

His ego sucked it all up, like an addict’s first hit in months.

The rational part of his brain he kept tucked far in the shadowy corners, starving and bleeding, told him it only served to twist the knife of this endless, self-fulfilling prophesy he lived created by his bastard parents when they emigrated from Morocco to this shithole of a country filled with too many white people who believed they’d done the world a favour by colonizing everything they ever touched. And he was expected to thank them for his too-posh accent, and inheritance he’d been cut off from when his father had caught him with his cock up the arse of his office intern.

“I have appointments,” Regulus said, cutting into Sirius’ morose inner monologue that would have served better on sheets of music and lyrics. “Really, what do you want.”

“I don’t know,” Sirius admitted. He flicked the soggy fag into the bin near Regulus’ work station and flung his arms behind his head. “Stick a needle in me.”

Regulus gave him a withering look, sitting back in his rolling chair, his arms tight across his chest. He looked too fucking much like their mother right now, and Sirius had to bite back the urge to slap him across the face just for the misguided belief she might actually feel it as she rotted in hell.

Not that he believed in hell, but he’d take up the practise if it meant he could envision her being tortured for all eternity.

Bitter? Who? Him?

Never.

“Lip. Pierce my lip.”

“Are you drunk?” Regulus asked.

Sirius shook his head, grinning sharply, letting his top teeth bite down hard against his bottom lip.

“High?”

“I don’t bother with that shite, and you know it.”

Regulus quirked a brow, his disbelief only fair considering the time he found Sirius at sixteen drowning in a puddle of his own vomit because no one had explained to him that street drugs could kill if he wasn’t careful—and Sirius Black didn’t know the meaning of the word.

“I’m fucking tired and it hurts inside. So make it hurt on the outside.”

“Don’t you have a show tomorrow night?” Regulus asked, but all the same, he reached into his small cabinet and pulled out a metal tray, a spray bottle, and two packages of needles which had the sterile marks on them. “You’re going to sing with a swollen lip?”

Sirius eyed his brother as he watched him spray off the tray, then pull out the piercing forceps. “I’ve sung with worse, you know. Busted teeth, broken jaw. I think I can handle a lip ring.”

Regulus reached out with his leg, kicking Sirius’ foot off the stool, then he sprayed it off, wiped it down, and set his things on it. Sirius got more comfortable in the chair, still lounged back. He could see himself across the way in the mirror, and he turned his head from side to side. 

He looked as exhausted as he felt, which wasn’t saying he wasn’t fucking beautiful. He was. He had arrogance if he had nothing else. His hair was in disarray though, getting too long, and not taking to the product he used to straighten it. The small hairs around his ears and forehead were starting to curl again, and he’d half a mind to just let it run wild. Slash got away with it, why not him?

His shirt was torn presently, and he knew he ought to be annoyed. It was somewhere round the avenue of three hundred quid, but he’d stopped counting what he spent on outfits when the interest in his bank account more than made up for it on the hour.

He’d never meant to be famous. That hadn’t been part of the plan when he’d run off from college and decided fuck the world, he was going to write angry songs and rip his fingertips to shreds on his guitar. He was looking forward to being the Starving Artist. Playing shite locals in random little villages all across the UK. He’d have a small band with a bassist and a drummer who kept him in check, who didn’t let him get too out of hand.

They’d travel round in some Scooby Doo van and beg for scraps and busk in London whenever they got too hard up for money. They’d be squatters in abandoned buildings and write their poor, tortured hearts out and eventually die. Some day someone would discover an old recording and the world would mourn the loss of a talent it never got to appreciate whilst they were alive.

They weren’t meant to be discovered on fucking YouTube, and signed by Sony, and invited to play in festivals and open for these fucking hipster, ukulele-playing twats on their sold-out tours.

They weren’t supposed to be a household name, for fuck’s sake.

Sirius was not supposed to have just come off a Rolling Stones photo shoot for their cover spread.

He had no right to be angry and yet.

He came back to himself as Regulus pinched him by the chin, turning his head from side to side. “Right or left? Do you care?”

“Surprise me.”

Regulus grabbed the little purple, felt-tip pen like he was going to mark Sirius, then shrugged and set it aside instead. He cleaned Sirius’ lip, then pulled it down, and clamped the forceps, securing them with a rubber band.

Sirius braced himself, welcoming the pain as Regulus opened the needle and grabbed his little cork. “Don’t come crying to me if you fuck this up and it gets ripped out tomorrow. I won’t pierce you again.”

That was a lie, and they both knew it. But Sirius’ lip was too occupied to call him out, and really what did he care? It made Reggie feel better, so fine. Let him have this. He closed his eyes, wanting to be surprised when the needle pierced the skin.

And ahhhhh.

Ah there it was. The slow, burning sting as it pierced his flesh. And the ache as Reggie released the forceps, threaded the hoop through the end of the needle, and pulled it out. He screwed the ball on, then pat it down with the edge of some kitchen paper, and handed a small hand mirror to Sirius.

“You look like a twat.”

“You always say that,” Sirius said. He tongued the ring, and decided he had the sort of face where he could have a hundred piercings or none, and it just looked natural. Like he always belonged that way. He set the mirror down, a brief moment considering he should just smash it on the ground because why not? He could do with a bit of bad luck for a few years.

“Leave some tickets for me and my mates,” Regulus said as he tidied up his work area. “I want to come tomorrow.”

“I do every bloody time, and you never fucking show.”

“I’m trying to impress someone with my super famous brother, lead singer of Grimm. So leave me tickets, and don’t sound like shit.”

Sirius grinned, tonguing his ring again. “Are you saying I may help you get laid?”

Regulus shot him a V, then reached out and hauled him to his feet. “I don’t need help getting laid. Go home and sleep until tomorrow, for fuck’s sake.”

Reaching into his pocket, Sirius pulled out the keys to his motorbike, tossing them in the air, and caught them. “Yeah. Will do.”

“You’re going to crash and die. Or at least bust up your pretty face and then who will love you?” Regulus challenged as he followed Sirius to the door.

“I suppose we’ll just have to find out.” He gave his brother a mock salute as he stepped out of the shop and into the sunny street. It was just his luck it was getting hotter, and no hope of rain presently. He wanted something dreary and ugly. He wanted the foggy, English sky to open up and piss all over him.

But it was just his luck.

Of course it was just his luck.

*** 

“Hang on!” A voice rang above the music, and James froze as he was reaching out for the leather chair in the centre of the white room. A firm hand curled round his bicep and he was turned round, and suddenly gobs of oil were being smeared across his taut chest and abs. He gave the poor sod in charge of doing the oiling-up a patient smile, knowing it couldn’t have been easy to have this job. 

This was the part of the job he hadn’t been looking forward to, the part he’d hoped to avoid in his endeavour to make it in the professional football world. Of course he knew those picked up by professional teams became stars in their own right, but he was no David Beckham. He didn’t have a Pop Star spouse, he hadn’t tried to market himself like sex symbol.

He wanted to just be…accepted. He wanted a spot on a men’s team, and he wanted to leave it at that.

His agent had warned him, of course. “You can’t expect to fly under the radar once this is out.”

James swallowed thickly, then nodded, ready for whatever came his way. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t expected the constant interviews and invasive questions, and people trying to sneak a peek into his pants in the locker rooms when he was changing. That had been going on for ages with bigoted lads couching their intrusive behaviour under the term, ‘curious.’ 

And he supposed on some level it had to do with being attractive. James had it easier than others who were like him—transgender men. James was passing. He’d been on puberty suppressants from age eleven, his testosterone regiment had long since just become a part of him. He was eighteen the day he had his top surgery, and his scars were nothing more than slivers of slightly puckered flesh under his well-formed pecs.

People told him more often than not he could have been a model, and James knew the risk of being attractive and a sport star. Adding to that being the first, openly transgender professional footballer who was signed to any of the British professional league teams—well things were bound to spiral out of control.

Or at least, out of the control he wanted over the situation. It was impossible these days to pop down to the local for a pint. Dates were right out now—he could never be sure if people wanted to date him because they fancied him, or fancied being part of the media circus which had become his life the moment Arsenal handed over the kit in front of the cameras, and declared James Potter their new starting forward.

His bio had been plastered on every news print in every city which gave a shit about the sport, and suddenly even ridiculous, minute details about his life and childhood were trivia questions in weekly crosswords. The day his mum phoned to tell him that one of the clues had been, ‘The first public school to allow a transgender student to sleep in the dormitory of their choice,’ was when he knew it was all over.

Not that James had any bitterness toward Hogwarts, or the Headmaster who took his parents aside and told them that there were no qualms about him and who he was. James had excelled in most of his subjects, had become captain of their House team in his sixth year, and by that point no one really thought twice about who he was. At least, no one who mattered.

But James had forgotten what it was like to live outside the secluded bubble of Hogwarts, and stepping into an invasive, uncaring world who would easily strip him down naked in a club just to get the exclusive on, ‘What surgeries has James Potter had,’ was a bit of a shock.

The photo shoots and magazine spreads didn’t help matters. When had becoming a footie player meant all of this? An offer from GQ? Vanity Fair? Since when did it mean getting oiled up and spread eagle on some shitty leather chair just before the curly-haired blonde sat down with him to ask questions he really didn’t want to give answers to.

He’d been warned, yes.

But he hadn’t wanted to believe until he was in the throes of it, and there was no turning back now.

“Perfect,” called the shoot director, who then urged James to the chair and began to shout instructions at him as the music rose and the lights flashed, and the fan began to whir.

He was used to it by now. It had been over two years of these things, and James had—in a sort of numbing way—accepted this as his life now. Lonely a bit, but doing what he loved. And in his off season he could take a month long holiday, he could work for charities, visit hospitals, whatever made the ache in his chest at selling out—because let’s face it, his bank account reminded him it was definitely for the money—ease up a bit.

Luckily, with James as a seasoned veteran in front of the camera, the shoot didn’t last long. His skin craved a long soak in his tub, and his face was itching under all the makeup, but he could bear it for the time it took to give his answers, then he would be let go.

Training didn’t start up for another six weeks, which meant he could go straight home after this, order something that his coach would kill him for, and turn on the telly.

A warm, wet towel began to scrub the oils off his chest and stomach, and soon enough he was being muscled into a chair by the frantic makeup artist who was using wet wipes to scrub away the thick makeup on his cheeks. The reporter, James couldn’t quite remember, Rita Something, he thought?—pulled a chair up next to him, pulled out a recorder, and flashed him a too-white smile.

“So. Rethinking your career? Maybe model?” She drew a long, bright pink, pointed nail down his shoulder, and James flinched away. Instead of looking offended, she merely tittered a laugh. “So, how are you feeling? Are you pleased with how the season turned out?”

James waited a moment to answer, as the makeup artist finished scrubbing his face. She gave him an apologetic smile, then wandered off as he grabbed a dry flannel and began to mop himself up. “I was fairly pleased, yes. I thought we could have done better this year, but with three of our starting players out within the first month, I think we did the best we could.”

“And how did it feel with so much press? Three public disturbances this year with members of the media?”

James felt his cheeks go hot, and he took a breath. “Yes well, I’d rather not talk about that.”

“But don’t you think your fans deserve to know why you were so…ruffled?” She winked at him, and he felt his stomach churn.

“I have accepted that my current situation offers less than ideal privacy, and less than ideal security over my personal life. But when I wake up to find photographers posted outside of my bedroom window, I’m going to become incensed. When they refused to respond to my request that they leave, I got a bit shirty. Would I do it differently a second time round? Yes.”

“Do you feel like the world watches you more carefully because you are…erm…forgive the term…”

“Transgender?” James supplied almost harshly, meeting her eyes in a steely gaze. She swallowed thickly. “It’s not a swear word, you know,” he added. “There’s nothing shameful about it.”

“And yet you kept it secret?” she simpered.

James clenched one hand into a fist. “I was not keeping it a secret. In fact, I’ve always been quite open about it. The world needs to stop reconciling gender with body parts. When they do that, a trans man joining a men’s football team will hardly be front page news.”

Rita grinned wider. “And yet you’re still avoiding my question.”

He stared at her, then sighed. “I…no. I’m not. And yes I suppose I’m under more scrutiny than others when it comes to my public behaviour. There are people out there who want me to be a spectacle. An attraction of sorts, and I’m not interested in giving them that.”

“And yet you continue to get physical. Do you think it’s the treatments you take that make you a bit more prone to take action?”

James looked at her with a raised brow. “Do you ask other men that question? Celebrities who have long arrest records for beating up the paparazzi? Do you question their testosterone levels?”

“I only mean to say…”

“I know what you mean to say,” James interrupted. “And I don’t appreciate it. The truth is, I’ve answered these questions ad nauseum. It’s a never ending circus of asking me about my body, and my treatments, and my gender. I’m a footie player, a starting forward, with record-breaking stats. You work for a sport magazine. So why don’t you ask me questions along those lines, eh? Because I’m more than happy to answer them.”

She blinked, then finished up with a few cursory questions about his thoughts on the next season’s line up, then switched off the recorder and grinned. “A pleasure as always, Mr Potter.”

James hummed, watching her go, and the moment she was out the door, he rose. Making his way through the small studio, he went to the changing room and found Peter waiting for him, tapping away on his mobile. He spared a glance up at James, giving him a tight smile.

“Why do you look like that?”

James rolled his eyes as he grabbed his tote and pulled his jeans and t-shirt. “Just the usual.”

“Ah.” Peter went back to his mobile, then tapped a few things, and glanced up again. “Well I’ve just forwarded you all your appointments this week,” he stopped when James groaned, and shook his head. “You knew this was going to be a busy month.”

“I did. But I didn’t anticipate not having a second to myself.”

Peter shrugged. “Such is the life, my celebrity friend. You know what you should do?”

James gave him a withering look.

“Date someone.”

James froze, one arm through the sleeve of his polo shirt, the other falling limply to his side as he gave Peter the most incredulous look he could muster. “Date someone? Date someone. That’s your solution to this never-ending problem of media hounding my footsteps.”

“It’s my solution to them asking you all the same questions over and over,” Peter pointed out.

James shook his head, struggling into his shirt, then he grabbed his belt and began to shove it through the loops on his jeans. “Mate, all that’s going to do is switch the questions from, ‘Mr Potter, can you share with us what you’ve got in those pants,’ to, ‘Person-Who-Is-Dating-Potter, can you share with us what he’s got in his pants?’ Except I’ll be involving another human being who most certainly will not have signed up for something like this.”

“Well you could go the route I suggested,” Peter said as he tucked his mobile into his pocket and rose.

James lifted a brow as the loud clink of his belt buckle filled the room. He snapped it together, and then untucked his shirt, letting it fall loose over his waist. “What?” he asked with an amused snort, “You mean go and find some peaches-and-cream white girl with the reputation of chastity and purity, marry her, and adopt some kids?”

“It’ll show you’re normal.”

James grit his teeth, then let out a slow breath. “I am normal. And I don’t need to conform to some cis-het normative idea of what society should be. I’m tired of having to be the clean-cut, calm, picture of perfection just to be taken seriously.”

“Well I don’t know what to tell you, then,” Peter said as he held the door for James.

Grabbing his duffle, he shouldered past his agent and into the corridor. His shoes made an echoing click on the polished tiles as they made their way down toward the back exit, where a car was waiting. “You can just do a better job at who you’ve got interviewing me. I’ve sat with that Skeeter cow six times now and it’s all the same thing.”

Peter shook his head. “Well if it helps, you’ve got something going with Out on Friday. Of course it’s going to revolve round your trans identity, but at least they’ll know the appropriate questions to ask.”

James fought back a violent wave of exhaustion, but said nothing as he and Peter parted ways. Slipping into the back of the car, James saw it was his usual driver, and gave him a solemn nod as they pulled out of the car park, and into the London street. His life wasn’t ideal, but he supposed it was worse than others, and he ought to appreciate his privilege. But there wasn’t a moment James didn’t wish for something a little different. A person who didn’t know him, didn’t give a shit what his body looked like, and merely wanted to be with him.

Someone he didn’t have to date in order to maintain his clean-cut image which was slowly grinding him down to bare bones.

It wasn’t fair, but then again, was life ever?

*** 

“Ah Moony,” Sirius said, glancing at the lit screen of his mobile. “You’re shitting me, right?”

“Why would I take the piss, Sirius. You’re the one who wanted to start doing more lesser-known venues.”

“I meant,” Sirius said as he flopped onto a chair and pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket, “underground punk scenes. Not…not sodding bookshops and libraries and…what the fuck is this, anyway?”

“It’s a pub,” Remus said, folding his hands primly on the table. “Not far from where you grew up.”

“So a bunch of shite, rich wankers, then?”

“It’s for charity,” Remus pointed out. “You’ll still be getting paid, but part of the cost at the door is going to fund a charity.”

“What charity?” Sirius demanded, staring at the poorly drawn logo. He scoffed, banging his mobile down on the table hard enough to crack the screen.

“It’s an LGBTQ+ positive charity,” Remus said. “It’s a subsidiary of the Quibbler, that publication who first wrote about Grimm.”

Sirius pulled a face, but he knew his argument was getting weaker and weaker with every word out of his friend’s mouth. “Fuck you.”

“Be as cross as you like, just be there. On time. Not wankered on anything, and quit fucking smoking.”

Sirius rolled his eyes, taking a larger than normal drag from his cigarette. “Fine. But I have a list of demands.”

Remus rolled his eyes, then glanced over at Lily who was hiding a smile behind her hand. “What’s new?”

“I want drugs.”

“No you don’t,” Remus said tiredly. “You don’t use drugs, and you’re just trying to wind me up. Send me a text of whatever it is you feel will motivate you to give a good performance. The show’s Friday night, and you’ll have all access to the bar—for after. And you can do whatever you like for an entire three weeks before your next show. So quit being a piss-baby about all of this.”

Sirius grimaced at him, finishing off the fag and flicking the still-lit butt at him. Remus batted it away without blinking an eye, and Sirius threw up his hands. “I fucking hate you. You know that?”

“No you don’t,” Remus said. “You love me. Now fuck off and I’ll see you for sound-check.”

Sirius rose, then leant over the table to shove a V in Remus’ face before storming out the door. It wasn’t like Remus was wrong. Sirius did love him—he relied on him, and they’d been working together for just about ever. Remus originally started in the band, but had never quite been up to scratch on any of the instruments. He had a good head on his shoulders, though, and Sirius didn’t know whether to thank him or blame him for their sudden fame.

Sirius supposed it was better than being a starving artist, though it was hard to rage against the dying of the light when he had money for literally anything. He couldn’t blame Remus for wanting it though, having grown up ill and poor and barely scraping by. Between sixteen and eighteen Remus only ate when Sirius fed him, and at one point occupied Sirius’ sofa for lack of a home to call his own.

But as the manager for Grimm, Remus didn’t need to worry about getting sacked. He didn’t need to worry about taking weeks off when he had a flare or when his new meds kept him bedridden, and hovered over the Porcelain God, retching his guts up. And Sirius would never fault him for it.

It didn’t make it easier to stomach. He was losing sight of who he was, of what he was writing about, of the person he had become. And maybe it was always that way when a band made it big. He could walk the walk, talk the talk, look the part with his leather and ripped jeans and too many tattoos and piercings. He could get a drug habit and waste away, but it wouldn’t change facts—all of those things were by choice. He no longer belonged to the society of people who did those things to get by. Who tattooed and pierced to distract from the inside pain which wouldn’t go away.

Running a frustrated hand down his face, Sirius went straight to the car park, hopped on his bike, and tore down the street.

*** 

Sirius stepped into the pub for sound check, deliberately two hours late, hoping to get reamed for it. Instead he walked into Remus snogging Lily up against one of the dirty pub walls, and he scoffed, rolling his eyes. “When the cat’s away, eh?”

“You’re a fucking dog, Black,” Lily said, shooting him a V from behind Remus’ back as she pulled the curly-haired man into another snog.

Sirius shrugged, then bypassed the pair of them through the small door. He side-eyed the stage, which was nowhere near the size he was used to playing on, and he almost was ill all over his feet when he saw the barstools perched near the mic’s. He was going to be expected to play sat down? Crooning like some lounge singer?

He marched up to the bar, and stared down the redheaded man who arched a brow, then pulled out a short glass. “Pick your poison.”

“Arsenic,” Sirius deadpanned.

“I’ve got a seventy-six year old scotch. Two hundred quid a glass.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “Tequila.”

The bartender lifted a brow, but grabbed a shot glass instead, and poured the clear liquid in. He offered the salt and lime, but Sirius shook his head, grabbed it, and took it down.

“I take it you’re Sirius Black?”

“My reputation precedes me,” Sirius muttered.

“Your manager warned me about you.” He grabbed a pint glass and filled it with water from the tap, passing it over to Sirius who glowered at it, but didn’t take it. “I’m Gideon. My brother and I own this place.”

“So you set up this whole…” Sirius waved his hand round the room. “Charity event thingie?”

Gideon shrugged one shoulder. “Sort of. We’ve been working with the Quibbler on a few different charities over the past couple of years. They do good work.”

Sirius grunted, then grudgingly took down a few swallows of the water. It tasted like metal faucet and he grimaced. “Well it’ll be over before you know it, and the plague that is Grimm will not darken your doorstep again.”

“Actually, I’m rather keen on your band,” Gideon said. “Not a creepy superfan or anything…”

“That’s literally what all the creepy superfans say,” Sirius replied, giving him a challenging look.

Gideon chuckled, then reached across the bar and boldly brushed a lock of hair from Sirius’ forehead. “Bet they don’t all give good head.”

Sirius sighed. “You’d be surprised. And as flattering—and tempting—as that is, I can’t. I’m not allowed to shag, get shagged, tossed off, or blown before a show.”

“Busy after?”

“That remains to be seen.” Sirius hopped off the stool and gave him a mock salute before wandering off.

The truth was, he wasn’t interested. Gideon was fit enough, but he was tired of these people thinking that just by offering him sexual conquest, he’d be interested. Like saying the word blowie would have him drop-trou right there in the fucking bar and let the dude put his mouth round his prick. At seventeen he’d have killed for it, but now, it was losing as much steam as the morose lyrics he belted into his mic every other night.

He was tired of feeling unfulfilled. He was tired of it all feeling so fucking empty. There had to be more. Emptiness didn’t write songs. At least nothing good. He could only capitalise on it for so long before he burnt out, ground the band into dust, and bailed.

*** 

James headed down the street, head down, a hoodie low on his forehead, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. He was torn between finding some pub and drinking away his frustrations—thus pissing off his coach and probably Peter—or finding Peter himself and giving him a good thumping for that set-up.

He wasn’t sure though, that Peter had any idea what he was getting James into. Of all the interviews, Out was supposed to be the safest. How could anyone have known they had a twat like Gilderoy Lockhart working there. Who would be just as bad, if not worse, than every interview James had done thus far. How could anyone have known that James would suffer the worst bout of dysphoria he’d had in years after that raging cunt had gone and…

Shaking his head, he took a breath and willed himself not to think about it.

A drink though. He needed a drink.

Rounding the corner, he knew there was a pub nearby, but the queue at the door was obscene and he knew whatever it was, it wasn’t worth it. He turned to go, smacking headlong into a man wearing a filthy overcoat, clutching what looked like two tickets in his hands.

“You looking for an in to the show?”

James raised a brow. “What show?”

“That show, mate,” the man said, nodding at the queue. “Got two back-stage passes for five hundred a piece. Get you in the side door, VIP and all that. Good deal, innit.”

“You’re a scalper,” James said, “so it’s going to be a shite deal.”

But for whatever reason, the idea had some appeal. Backstage passes, to whatever the hell Grimm was. The drinks would probably be overpriced, not that he was really fussed about it. But maybe loud music and a few drinks would take his mind off things.

James dug into his pocket, fumbling for his wallet, and pulled the cash out. He counted it out, then looked up at the man. “I’ve got three-twenty. Take it or leave it.”

“You ain’t getting both,” the man said.

“Do I look like I need both?” James asked. He held the cash just under the scalper’s nose, and saw his nostrils flare. “Going once…going twice…”

The man made a grab for it, and James snatched one of the passes out of his hands. Taking a step back, James looked at it, then shrugged. “If this doesn’t get me in, I’m going to find you. I hope you know that. You’ve no idea who you’re fucking with.”

The man gave him a slow look, and he seemed to recognise him—maybe not who he was, but the importance of his status, and he stepped back. “They’s legit, I swear. Have a good time.”

Rolling his eyes a bit, James slung the lanyard round his neck, and made his way past the queue, toward the side door where there was a much smaller one. There was a man outside with a small gun-like object scanning people’s badges. James got behind a tall, black-haired woman and tapped his foot as they moved up slowly.

It took over ten minutes, but finally he held his out. The man at the door was massive, at least four inches taller than James, and several stone heavier. He grabbed the badge, scanned it, then stopped to look at James’ face.

“I know you,” he said, his voice deep and rumbling.

James shook his head. “Not tonight you don’t.”

The man gave a shrug, then beckoned him inside to what looked like a makeshift staging area with tables of food, and a standing bar near the back. Luckily James didn’t recognise anyone, but he didn’t want to be there. He wanted to blend in with the massive crowd, to go unseen, unnoticed.

He pulled his hoodie up higher, then found his way to the main pub area. It was small, far too small for all the people they had shoved together. He had to wonder what this really was all about. It wasn’t that he wasn’t up to date on modern bands and who was popular on purpose, it was only that everyone kept him so bloody busy, he didn’t have a chance. And with all the rubbish floating round about him on the internet—and he’d like to meet the bastard who thought that was a good idea and give him a good thumping—he tried to avoid it.

At all costs.

Which left him letting Peter manage his twitter, and sticking to paperback books and shite American telly where he hadn’t quite caught on as a sensation. Just yet, as Pete liked to remind him. Pete, who was also a bastard.

If James found out Peter knew who was conducting the interview that night, he would never forgive him.

Reaching the bar, James managed to get the attention of a woman with a blue-tipped afro, and ordered a pint. He chugged it down quick as he could, and ignored her laugh as she plonked another one in front of him. He slid his card out of his pocket, and passed it over. “Start a tab,” he said.

She glanced at the name, then back up at him with wide eyes. James pushed a finger against his lips, his gaze begging her to keep quiet, and she shrugged up one shoulder. “I’m Marlene,” she said, her voice louder than the crowd near him. “And your secret’s safe with me.”

James tipped his glass at her in thanks, and appreciated that she didn’t say a word, and kept the booze flowing.

Twenty minutes in, the already dim house-lights dimmed further, and suddenly a band took the stage. They seemed a bit…amateur for the crowd, but as it was, no one seemed overly excited so James had to assume they were some local group opening for whomever had drawn the crowd.

It was a good time, he decided, to empty his too-full bladder. He pushed his way down the corridor, and luckily people had panicked upon hearing the noise, and abandoned the queue. James shoved the door open and pushed his way to a stall.

A quick slash eased the pressure in his gut, and he let out a small groan as he hauled his jeans up, grimacing at the filth on the stall door. Strolling out, he came to an almost skidding halt at the sight of a man stood at the sink, bent over as red dripped from his bottom lip.

“Shit, are you okay?” he blurted without thinking of toilet etiquette and how you just didn’t say anything because you never knew who’d have their junk out.

The man, however, turned and gave James an appreciative up and down before shrugging a shoulder. “Yeah, mate. I mean, been better. Stupid fucking twat elbowed me in the mouth. Ripped my lip ring straight out.”

James went to the sink, soaping up, rinsing off, then grabbed a wad of paper and shoved it under the tap. He held out a hand toward the man’s chin, and when he lifted it, pushing forward a bit, James took that as tacit permission and pinched the curve of his jaw. Pushing the paper against the tear in his lip, James took a moment to appreciate his gorgeous eyes. Stormy grey, a colour James had never seen on a person. They had a dark ring round the edges, and his lashes were long. His skin was a dark olive, hair with a slight texture and wave to it—pulled back into a bun at the base of his neck, but James could tell it was probably very long.

He had tattoos, a sleeve on his left arm, a smattering on his right. Under his threadbare white t-shirt, James could make out black outlines of images along his chest. He wore jeans that were ripped artfully, some probably on purpose, others—like the tears on the knees—James could only imagine where those had come from.

His mouth went dry, belly going hot with desire, and he shook his head. Not only was this stranger the opposite of who he was supposed to be seen with considering his image, he was a complete stranger. In some dodgy pub’s toilet.

He rolled his eyes at himself, then pulled both hands away. “Better?”

The stranger’s tongue darted out and James caught a flash of a silver stud as he licked along the wound in a very dog-like fashion. “Could be worse. Last wound I got was this,” he held out his middle finger which had thick, light scar along the edge. “I had no way to get a plaster so my mate poured fucking glue into it. Got to A&E three hours later and had to listen to the doctor lecture me for forty-five minutes as they peeled the glue out and stitched me up.”

James couldn’t help a laugh, his head shaking back and forth. “That’s…I don’t even know what that is.”

At his laugh, the stranger’s eyes lit up and his head cocked to the side—again reminding James of a dog. “What’s your name?”

James rubbed his hand through his hair. “Will it sound mad if I ask you if you’re taking the piss and you really don’t know?”

The stranger barked a laugh. “Are you a celebrity?”

“In some circles.”

“So we’re alike, then, eh?” The stranger backed up, leaning against the sink. One foot crossed over the other, his arms tight across his chest.

James sighed. “My name is James. What’s yours?”

“Ah and you’re telling me you don’t know. Are you trying to take the piss, or is this some sort of seduction tactic?”

“Is it working?” James blurted for some reason, he wasn’t sure why. Then he shook his head and grinned toothily at the stranger. “Honestly, I’m not taking the piss, and not in the habit of seducing random punk blokes in toilets. My manager would kill me if he saw me with someone like you.”

“I don’t believe you,” the stranger said. He took two, long strides toward James, his hand going out to finger the badge round James’ neck. “You came to a punk show and you don’t know me.”

“Music critic?” James guessed. “Where’s your badge?”

The stranger’s voice suddenly dipped low as he crowded James back between the sinks, flush against the cool tiles. “Don’t need one,” he murmured. “I’m called Sirius, by the way. Ring any bells?”

James swallowed thickly, his hands rising involuntarily to Sirius’ hips and he squeezed them tight, pulling Sirius closer to him, though not quite chest-to-chest. “No. Should it?”

“Why’d you get this expensive—yes I know it’s expensive—backstage badge?”

James laughed, his breath hitching a bit as Sirius dipped his head in so close, they were almost kissing. “Scalper on the street offered me the tickets for twice the cost. I…had the cash,” he stopped, sucking in his breath when Sirius’ hips pressed against his own. He could feel Sirius hard in his jeans, and between his own legs had gone damp with desire. “I don’t even know who’s playing.”

“Grimm,” Sirius breathed, letting his lips brush just slightly, just the barest amount of pressure, over James’.

“Are they grim?”

Sirius laughed very softly, his breath almost minty and sweet. “That’s what they’re called. Grimm. It’s a charity show tonight at this pub.”

“Ah. That explains it,” James mumbled, wanting to turn his head up, to press his lips a little more definitely to Sirius’. “You should lock the door. Public toilet and all that.”

“Should I?” But Sirius was backing up toward the door, and with a long-fingered hand, flicked the lock. When he returned, he grabbed James by the front of his shirt, and after all the waiting…kissed him. It was rough, a little mean in a way, biting and sucking instead of the dull pressure and tangling tongues James was used to with his lovers.

But it was good. So good. His breath was lost in the mouth of the other man, and his head tipped back against the wall as Sirius’ hand ghosted down his front. “What say you to a blow-job? I drop to my knees, take your cock in my mouth.”

At that, James froze, and he was viciously reminded of the reasons why he didn’t pull random blokes in pub toilets because he would have to say these words. Or well, if he wanted this to potentially go anywhere he would—and fuck he was so turned on right now he could _cry,_.

“I don’t have a cock,” he muttered, letting his fingers loosen their grip on Sirius’ arms. “I’m a trans man.”

It tripped Sirius up for a second, his eyes going a bit wider, eyebrows up. Then he licked his lips and his hand fell down toward the waist of James’ jeans where he dipped his fingers just below the band. “Do you want me?”

“Fuck. Yes,” James admitted.

“Can I lick you, then? I don’t think we have time for a shag but I’m fucking good with my mouth and I think I can get you off before anyone comes banging on that door.”

James, never one to back down from a challenge, raised a brow. “You think so?”

Sirius smirked, looking triumphant as his fingers flew to the button, to the zip, tugging James’ jeans and boxers down with one fell swoop. James managed to toe off a shoe as Sirius pulled one leg out and forced James’ knee up onto the sink, spreading him wide. Sirius’ palms roamed wildly over James’ hairy thighs as his nose came, burying itself in the musky thatch of coarse black curls. A tongue darted out, dipping between his folds, getting James right…oh right where he wanted it.

“Fuck,” he said in a slow hiss as Sirius’ tongue worked him again. And again. Then once more.

The pressure on his clit was maddening as he pushed his hips forward, one hand pressing to the back of Sirius’ head, which he fought as he pulled away. “Can I use my fingers?”

“Just…” James said, gasping as he spoke because Sirius was going at him _again_ without abandon and fuck he’d been right. He was good with his mouth. “Not too deep. Please.”

Sirius pushed two inside, just to the first knuckle, spreading them just a bit and rubbed at the very edge of James’ entrance as his tongue worked him up and up and up until…

“Oh fuck oh god, I’m coming fuck.” James’ head flew back hard the crack of the tile loud against his skull but he didn’t care because pleasure was shooting from his middle into all four limbs as he pushed himself hard against Sirius’ mouth.

Pulling back, Sirius swiped the back of his hand over his lips, then licked up the mess from his chin. He rose to his feet as James struggled back into his jeans, and grabbed James by the chin, kissing him slow, careful, far sweeter than it had been earlier.

James stared for a moment, through a slight fog in his glasses before he said, “Shall I return the favour?”

“Maybe after the show?” Sirius asked. “If you have the time.”

James licked his lips and eyed the bulge in Sirius’ jeans. “Yeah. I…fuck everyone who might care. I’ll have time.”

Sirius smirked, then threaded his fingers between Sirius’ as he led the way to the door. There was a queue, but no one had knocked, and a few people _stared_ openly as they walked out but how could he give a shit when he’d just been given one of the best orgasms of his life?

They headed for the main bar area, James’ previous pint long forgotten but he still had a tab and the least he could do was buy the man a drink. “Can I get you…”

But Sirius wasn’t coming out into the open, and his hand had tightened on James’.

“Problem?” James asked. “You don’t want to watch the show with me?”

Sirius looked genuinely distressed as he tugged James closer. “I can’t. I’m sorry, I have a thing.” James felt his heart sink, the old fear settling in like maybe it had been too much, maybe because Sirius had expected something _else_ when he’d got James’ off and well… “I want to, but…look just promise me you’ll wait by the bar,” Sirius tugged him even closer so he was speaking right in James’ ear, “and you won’t fucking _dare_ leave until it’s over. Swear it.”

James swallowed thickly and pulled back, then in the dark shadows of the dingy pub corridor, kissed him again. “I swear.”

Sirius let him go, walking backward, not taking his eyes off the footie star until he had to turn the corner. When it was over, James made his way back to the bar, Marlene staring at him with a smug grin as she filled another pint and shoved it over.

“Well then,” she said, and James rolled his eyes.

“Not a word,” James muttered.

She leant over. “Just two. Good job. And five more. Your secret’s safe with me.”

James shook his head but grinned and took down half the pint in one go. Had to replace his fluids, maybe acquire more if what Sirius had sworn to him meant what he thought it did. He ordered a basket of chips and glanced at the stage where the second opening band was departing.

Before he could turn fully, someone approached the bar, slapping a hand on it, and James glanced over to see a curly-haired man with a gorgeous redhead by his side. The curly-haired man looked furious. “Where the fuck is Sirius?”

Marlene grinned and shrugged. “Don’t know. Thought I saw him going into the toilets a bit ago with…someone. But don’t think he’s there anymore.”

“Fucking…fuck.”

“Remus,” the redhead said. “He’s fine. Stop panicking.”

James blinked in confusion. “I erm. I saw him a few minutes ago,” he offered.

The couple turned and stared, then the redhead let out a peal of laugher. “Holy fucking shit. Are you James Potter? My dad’s a huge fan. I’m Lily.”

She stuck out a hand and the whole thing was so confusing James offered his own before coming back to himself, and he used his other hand to tug up the hood over his hair. “Look, could you not like…announce that? I’m technically not even supposed to be here.”

“I bet not,” Lily said, leaning on the bar in front of the one called Remus. “Shouldn’t you be at like…a One Direction concert or something.”

“Lily,” Remus whinged. “Sorry about her, really.” He pushed her out of the way slightly. “Look, you said you saw Sirius?”

“Yeah,” James said. “Met him in the toilet. Had a bloody lip,” he clarified when Lily snorted. “I asked if he wanted to watch this concert thing with me, but he declined.”

“Concert thing,” Lily repeated. “You really are out of your element. No idea who this band is, do you?”

James shrugged. “Is it important? Just came in for music and beer.”

“You’re in for a treat then,” she said, and clapped his arm. “Did you see where he went, by the way?”

“Just down there,” James said, nodding at the corridor.

Remus breathed out a sigh of relief and took her hand. “Thank _fuck_. Come on, we’d better see if we can catch him before.”

“Nice to meet you James. Enjoy the show!” Lily called as she was unceremoniously tugged in the direction Sirius had gone.

When they were out of earshot, James leant in toward Marlene. “What was that about? Should I be worried that his mates were searching for him like that?”

Marlene laughed and shoved his chips at him. “Not at all. For all that he comes across as being very…” She shook her head. “Sirius, he’s a good person. He deserves better than he’s got.”

James hummed, then the lights went down and there was a cheer amongst the crowd. There was a shifting of bodies, toward the stage, and James had a better view from his seat at the bar. He swivelled so he could watch properly as music started—just the hum of an acoustic and electric guitar. Then the lights went up on the stage, and James almost fell over.

Sat on a stool, looking gorgeously dishevelled and flushed in the cheeks a bit, holding a guitar with one hand, and the mic with the other, was Sirius Black.

*** 

The show, for what it was worth, went better than Sirius had expected it. Just before he took the stage, Lily grabbed him by the back of his shirt and pushed him against the wall. “Did you defile James fucking Potter in the toilet?”

He blinked. “Fit bloke, hair all you know…” He made a mussed gesture with his hand. “And speccy?”

Lily’s jaw tightened. “Jesus Christ you did.” She turned to Remus. “He did. Of all the fucking randos in this entire pub he chooses James Potter to shag and ditch.”

Sirius’ eyes went wide, hands up. “Hang on there, you fucking banshee. I didn’t shag and ditch anyone. I plan to meet him after the show.”

“He doesn’t know who you are,” she said, punctuating every word with a jab to the solar plexus.

“Oy! Remus. Do something about this,” Sirius demanded, pointing at Remus’ girlfriend.

Remus gave him a dry look. “No. I said no shagging.”

“Well I didn’t shag him. I fucking ate him out like a champ, made him come all over my face, and I’m still half hard because I promised I wouldn’t get off until after the show.”

“Sirius!” Lily cried at the same time as Remus threw up his hands and yelled, “You can keep the details to yourself!”

Sirius smirked. “Okay but obviously there’s something about this bloke I don’t know.”

“Google him,” Lily said. “You have five minutes. Fucking google him. And he’s a nice guy, Sirius! A really nice one and his reputation is…” She sighed. “Please don’t do this.”

Sirius dug his mobile out of his pocket and typed James Potter into the search engine. As it was loading, he gave her a withering look. “I like him, you know. Not that I know him, but I like him.”

“You didn’t even tell him who you are,” she pointed out.

He shrugged as the page loaded. “Thought it would be a fun surprise. Thought he might…” He trailed off as the article loaded up. He glanced at the headline, then read into the article before shoving his mobile away. “So what?”

“So,” Lily said, “did you read it?”

“Yes,” Sirius said, “and all I read was a load of bollocks obsessing what’s in his fucking pants and making a spectacle out of the fact that he’s a good player in spite of his gender. Oh and that he’s a fan of Taylor Swift, which I think is a load of shit.”

Remus snorted, and Lily rolled her eyes.

“Well, he’s here, isn’t he?” Sirius demanded. “And he certainly wasn’t turning me down in the loo. And fuck you for trying to spin that. I like him.”

“Just don’t,” Lily began.

“No offence Lils, because I love the hell out of you. But shut the fuck up and let him decide.”

Lily pinked in her cheeks, but she shrugged and took a step back. “Have a good show.”

Sirius nodded, then stepped out onto the dark stage, grabbed his guitar, and sat. His tongue darted out to lick the hole where his lip ring had been, and he could still taste James on him. He shuddered and was momentarily grateful for the fact that the guitar covered him and would as he played. Because fuck he was still so horny and Christ there was something about James he wanted more than just a mouth on his cock. More than just a quick shag in a pub loo.

The amps began to whine and he closed his eyes and was struck by an unbidden image of James Potter waking up in the morning in Sirius’ bed. Dishevelled and gorgeous and sleepy morning kisses and tea and…

He stopped himself.

Who the fuck was he, anyway? Lily and Remus?

But he couldn’t help it because it was still there and when the stage lights went up, and he caught a brief glimpse of James at the bar—the shocked look on his face, he knew he was fucked. He wanted it.

Christ.

Christ he wanted it.

*** 

Sirius wasn’t sure if James would be at the bar when all was said and done. The lights on stage were too blinding for him to make out whether or not he’d stayed. And Sirius had lied. Or well, he’d withheld enough of the truth for him to understand if James bailed.

But he hoped not.

That idea of morning kisses and fucking tea like he was some sort of jumper-wearing tool wouldn’t get out of his head and how much he _wanted_ it terrified him a little. Still, he tried not to rush through the sets, and he gave an encore, and was pragmatic enough to say hello to the people who’d purchased the VIP badges. He stood for photos and autographs and meet and greets.

Eventually he took shelter in the small room they’d set up. He changed out of his sweat-soaked t-shirt and had a fag in spite of the no-smoking policy. He texted Reg about the lip ring, getting back snark and a vow never to pierce him again which he ignored. 

Then the pub was empty enough. Most of the patrons had gone and it was safe to venture out for a drink, and a peek, the hope glowing almost painful in his chest as he walked down the dark corridor. He could hear Remus and Lily rowing near the bar—as usual. He knew they were on the road to some fantastic hate sex, which would lead to their morning-after make-up sex, and Remus would be in a far better mood, and far more pleasant than he ever had been back when he and Sirius had the mad idea to try dating.

That had been one of his biggest disasters, nearly ruined a friendship he knew he couldn’t live without. Had it not been for Lily picking up the pieces and reminding the pair of them how much they needed each other, it might have all gone to hell.

Taking a breath, Sirius came round the corner and first noticed Marlene cleaning up the massive stack of pint glasses she had by her small sink. She gave him a grin, then jutted her chin toward the end of the bar where—by some miracle—James remained. 

“Scotch,” Sirius said, and as if by magic, it appeared. He took down the first half with a long gulp, then noticed James had seen him, so he walked over and offered a too-wide grin. “Enjoy the show?”

James stared for a moment. “You might have said, you know.”

“And that would have ruined the surprise. Looked you up as well, Mr Potter.”

James sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face. “I had a shit night, okay? My agent set me up with an interview that was supposed to go…well, a different way than it did. I left feeling dysphoric as fuck, ignored, and a bit like a sham on the pitch. Some twat on the street who smelt like piss offered me tickets and I thought, music and a pint, why not. I did not come in here looking to get off with the lead singer of what is apparently a rather famous fucking band.”

Sirius felt his stomach clench. These were not the words of a man who was looking to go home with him and shag him stupid. “Er. We’re not that famous,” he offered. “You didn’t know us.”

“That’s because I’m keeping up an appearance,” James said, waving his hand up and down his body. “I have to be this…this fucking. Whatever I am, to make sure that no one wants to question my right—as a fucking man, might I add—to play on the men’s team.”

“How drunk are you?” Sirius asked.

“Not drunk enough,” James said. He held up a finger for another, but Sirius shook his head and Marls seemed inclined to agree with him. “Fuck you, Mr Punk Rock.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “Too drunk for clever insults, it seems. I’m getting you home. Come on.” He put one hand on James’ arm, and he turned to Marlene. “Put all his shit on my tab.”

“Already done, love,” she said.

“Oh no you don’t,” James said, pulling away and swaying as he stood. “You’re not…you can’t just decide if you pay for my drinks!”

Sirius nearly laughed and swung an arm round James’ tight waist. He could feel his abs flexing under his fingers and fuck, his mouth was going dry again. But James was far too pissed for any of that. “Come on. I have a motorbike. Okay? It’ll be fun, and I’ll take you home, and maybe you can invite me up for a cup of tea.”

“And a fuck?” James asked in his ear as they headed for the back exit.

“I don’t fuck people who can’t consent, mate. And you are too trunk for that.” Sirius kicked the door open, then led James to the back of the alley where he’d parked the bike. “Where do you live?” James gave the address, and Sirius groaned. “Fuck, I grew up around there. That’s…well. Whatever. Come on, get on the bike.”

James hesitated, but eventually complied and Sirius tried to ignore just how bloody nice it felt to have warm arms round his waist and a hot breath against his neck as he took off down the street. He passed by Grimmauld Place, shooting number twelve his customary V, and James laughed loudly, joining him for no other reason, he supposed, than solidarity and the ability to throw a rude gesture in the air without having someone snapping a photo of it and plastering it online.

Eventually Sirius pulled up in front of James’ building, and switched the bike off. “So about that tea?”

James shrugged. “Yeah. Come on up.” He was a bit more steady on his feet as he put the key into the door, and before long they were on the third floor, pushing into a rather posh flat which was sparsely decorated, and a bit cold. James flung his keys into a small bowl by the door, and shrugged. “This is it. Have a seat if you like. I’ll…sort out the kettle.” He took a step toward the kitchen, then stumbled and Sirius caught him.

“How about I put you to bed.”

“Only if you stay,” James replied, closing his hand round Sirius’ wrist.

Taking a shaking breath, Sirius shrugged. “No shagging.”

James shrugged. “Your loss. You’re the one who didn’t get off.” He then pulled Sirius along toward his bedroom and kicked the door open with the ball of his foot.

“I got what I needed,” Sirius admitted quietly as they stepped inside. The bedroom was more James than the rest of the flat. Warm and cosy, decorated in maroons and golds. He had photos pinned to the walls, an unmade bed, Cherrywood wardrobe with a telly perched above it.

James immediately began to shrug out of his clothes, and was practically crawling by the time he reached the mattress.

Sirius laughed, seeing the jeans were caught on his shoes, and he went down to his knees to untie them and pull them off. He put them all in a neat pile on the floor, along with James’ discarded shirt, and in only boxers, he crawled up to the pillows and buried his face into them.

“I should probably go, you know.” Sirius dropped a palm flat on the small of James’ back.

“Don’t want you to,” James mumbled. “I like you, you know.”

“I like you too,” Sirius said quietly.

James turned his head on the pillow and peered one, bleary eye at him. His glasses had got lost somewhere, but Sirius was careful as he pulled himself fully onto the bed. James’ hand darted out, the backs of his knuckles drifting down Sirius’ cheek. “So you…you like me.”

“Seems so.”

“Take those stupid clothes off. You smell like the pub,” James blurted.

Sirius couldn’t help his laugh as he wriggled out of his own jeans, leaving the t-shirt and boxers on. He let out a noise of surprise as James manhandled him downward, then pulled his shirt up. “Wanna see ‘em,” James muttered, then ran his hands over the tattoos. “Who does them?”

Sirius looked down at James’ dark hand ghosting over his ink. “My brother. He’s brilliant, isn’t he?”

James made a noise of agreement before dropping his mouth to place a soft kiss over the full moon tattoo which was done just over his heart. “You’re brilliant. You really want to stay?”

“Yeah,” Sirius said. “Your straight-edge shite is going to ruin my reputation though, the moment someone spots us together.”

“Peter’s going to kill me for being seen with the likes of you,” James countered. “But fuck them. Fuck them, Sirius. I’m so…” He huffed and buried his face in Sirius’ neck, hitching him close. “I’m so fucking tired. I’m tired of having my every move evaluated. I’m tired of watching every fucking step I take for fear it’s going to invalidate all my hard work. That it’s going to make them say see, he’s not really a man. He shouldn’t be on this team.”

Sirius swallowed thickly, letting his hand come up to play with the soft hair at the nape of James’ neck. “People are shit. And they’re always going to be shit. And if you don’t fit into that little cut-out that they set for you, they’re always going to find a reason to tell you that you don’t belong. But fuck them. Because you do. You’re great.”

“You don’t even know me,” James pointed out.

Sirius glanced down, meeting his fuzzy gaze, and he smiled. “Yeah well, give me a chance?”

With a sappy grin, James shrugged and nuzzled in closer. “Yeah, alright. Suppose I can do that.”

“Big of you,” Sirius said, then tugged the duvet over them both and somehow, amidst all that, he managed to sleep.

*** 

Sirius woke with the sun, his back pressed against a warm body, a gentle mouth pressing kisses along his shoulders. He moaned, then remembered where he was and pushed back. “You’re up.”

“Mm,” James said, and a hand snaked round his waist, gently ghosting over his crotch. “So are you.”

Sirius flushed and buried his face further into the pillow. “Seems so.”

“And not drunk,” James pointed out. “And still want to fuck you.”

Sirius gulped, then nodded and pushed back again. “Yeah?”

James’ hand cupped over his erection and stroked through the boxers. “Can I fuck you? Are you…do you like it up the arse?”

His words came out hesitant, like he was worried. And Sirius couldn’t help but wonder about the mechanics of that but if he was asking, he figured James knew what the hell he was doing. The very thought of going onto his hands and knees and letting James take him…fuck. “Yeah. God yeah I want that.”

James pressed a hot, wet kiss to the centre of his spine, then shifted back. “Wait here. Get on your stomach.”

Sirius scrambled to comply, keeping his face in the pillow, eyes shut with anticipation. James returned a moment later, and there was a strange sound, like a belt buckling. Then there was the sound of lube uncapping, and a gentle finger tracing up and down his crack.

“Want you,” James breathed.

“Fuck yes.” Sirius pushed his hips back, and let the finger breech him. One became two after that, and James unerringly hit his prostate until he was begging for more. “Please, please fuck me,” Sirius begged.

“Hands and knees,” James ordered in a shaking voice. 

Sirius scrambled up, looking back as James knelt behind him, and Sirius felt something thick and covered in lube pressing against his entrance. His elbows shook a little, and he prepared himself to take it.

For his part, James was slow, careful, pushing in with more care than Sirius had ever been taken by any lover. Even Remus had been rough and a bit unforgiving but this…

He hissed as he took it all, and then he felt James’ palms on his hips, holding him steady. “Alright?” he asked.

Sirius nodded, his head bent toward the pillows. “Yeah. Yeah I promise. I’m good. And are you…can you…”

“Yeah,” James said, and blew out a trembling breath. “It’s good for me too.” Then he began to cant his hips and Sirius let out a cry of surprise as his prostate was immediately hit. His hands clenched into fists in the sheets as he thrust back, and he couldn’t help the moans cascading out of his mouth like a waterfall.

Then James’ hand was on him, stroking him in time with the thrusts. He could feel his orgasm cresting, and it was when James gave a shout, “Oh fuck fuck I’m coming,” that he let go and released all over James’ knuckles.

After a second, his legs gave out, and James eased him to the bed before pulling out. Sirius heard the sound of metal unbuckling, and then after a moment, a warm body pressed back against his. James was sweaty and there was the musky scent of come, and it was so good that Sirius couldn’t help but turn his head and kiss him slowly, tongues sliding together slick and wonderful.

“Fuck,” he said after pulling away. “That was amazing.”

James laughed. “Payback for that little stunt in the bathroom,” he said. “I haven’t come that hard in years.”

Sirius couldn’t help a smug grin as he shrugged, shuffling closer so their fronts were pressed together. He let his hand wind round James’ back, drawing lines along the warm skin just above James’ arse. “I told you I was good with my mouth.”

“Mm, suppose you did say something like that.” He snickered, then kissed Sirius just under his ear, trailing his mouth down to suck at his pulse point. “I like you, Sirius.”

Sirius let his hand bury in James’ hair, holding him tight. “I like you too.”

James pulled away, though kept their chests pressed together, and even locked a leg round Sirius’ to keep him from moving too far. “Could we…I mean. Fuck this sounds so juvenile and everything but…”

“You want to try and make a go of it?” Sirius asked. James nodded, and Sirius had to kiss the stupidly adorable look of uncertainty off his face before he could speak again. “I’d like that. I…I’ve been feeling lost. Like I lost sight of what I wanted. I was supposed to be this…I dunno. Starving artist, entrenched in the punk life, maybe dying young whilst I’m still gorgeous. But it seemed so…cheap. I didn’t even mean to get fucking famous, either. Now I just feel like I’m floating.”

James nodded, letting his lips drag along the side of Sirius’ jaw, their stubble catching on each other’s a bit, but Sirius didn’t pull back. “I know what you mean. In my drunken rambling last night I think I tried to explain everything. Everything I do is…watched. Analysed. And I’m tired. I just want to do things that make me happy.”

Sirius smiled at him. “What makes you happy?”

“Footie,” James said with a shrug. “Travelling, beaches. You.”

Sirius felt a warmth rush through him and though it was ridiculous because he didn’t even know this man, he was starting to understand all those musicians and poets and what the fuck they meant when they said the stars sing and the heavens open up when you meet the one you were meant to be with. Because fucking hell this was…this was _everything_.

“Then I think we’re on the right track.” Sirius took a breath, then said, “We can keep it quiet, you know. If you want. So it doesn’t cause you any…”

He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence, because James caught him by the chin and kissed him deep and needy. When he pulled back, he pushed their noses together. “Fuck them,” he whispered. “Fuck them all. I want you, and I don’t care who knows.”

*** 

**Epilogue**

It could have gone as bad as anything in his past had, but somehow—as unforgiving as the Universe could be—James found himself, of all places, in Cabo on his honeymoon. He was taking a year off from playing so he could tour with Sirius the moment their holiday was over, and then they’d…well. They’d figure it out.

The media and the world had been in a bit of an uproar when the relationship went public. Peter was pissed off that James hadn’t warned him, but ultimately stopped putting out fires and started just letting them burn. James left Arsenal for Chelsea, then went on to play for England in the Cup. They lost to Italy, but the sense of accomplishment he had trumped any sort of disappointment from the loss. Sirius went on to release an album with Grimm, and one on his own that he would tour for just after their honeymoon, and though they hadn’t been left alone since they came out as a couple, neither cared much.

They moved into Sirius’ flat, it was bigger and further away from Sirius’ family. James got a tattoo from Regulus, and Sirius got his lip re-done. The wedding was small, only twenty people in attendance. Remus got into a fist-fight with a photographer for the Prophet who managed to sneak in, and they spent their wedding night paying his bail.

They’d been on the beach a week now, a small seaside cottage to themselves, and it had all been rather wonderful.

Sirius was at the little cabana bar getting drinks, and James had wandered up to help when a man slid in front of Sirius and held out a tape recorder. “So, husband to James Potter. How’s your honeymoon going?”

Sirius pulled a face. “Fantastic up until right now.”

“No rowing? You don’t feel like some of the magic has been lost?”

Sirius merely stared at him, clutching the daiquiris in his hands.

“Any chance you’ll go candid with us? Tell us what James has got in those tight pants of his?”

Sirius glanced up at James, then rolled his yes. “Yeah, me, on a good day. Now fuck off before I have to spend the night in a Mexico Jail for beating the shit out of you.”

The man paled visibly and he turned, startled then to see James stood there with his arms crossed over his chest. “I…”

“You heard my husband,” James growled. “And don’t think I won’t be in there at his side.”

The man scrambled off, and Sirius slid over, pushing a drink into James’ hand before going up on his toes to kiss him. “Fuckers.”

James snorted. “We got a full week before one of them found us,” he said. “That’s gotta be some record.”

Sirius let his hand trail down over the phoenix tattoo James had on his forearm, the one matching Sirius’. Their hands threaded together, and they padded their way through the soft, hot sand back to their shaded chairs. 

As James sat, Sirius threw himself between James’ legs and turned his face up to kiss the underside of his husband’s chin before taking a long drink through the straw. James let his hand bury in Sirius’ hair as they looked out over the sea.

“What are you thinking about?” Sirius asked, glancing up at James’ expression.

He looked down, then grinned and shrugged. “That I like it here. That I like you.” He reached over and set both their drinks down, then turned Sirius so he was straddling him and holding him by the ribs. “That I fucking love you.”

Sirius leant his head down and kissed him. “I love you too. Anything else in that brain of yours?”

James shrugged, then tightened his grip before standing up. “That I think I’d like to throw you in the sea.” Sirius screamed as James rushed across the sand holding his lover. They hit the water hard, and Sirius spluttered as he came up, and splashed James in the face.

“You fucking wanker!”

James laughed, his head back as he grabbed Sirius about the waist and tugged him close. “Yeah. But you love me.”

“You’re fucking lucky I do.” 

James brushed wet knuckles across the back of Sirius’ cheek. “Yeah. Yeah I really think I am.”


End file.
